Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

XXV. ...And Then, You Will Burn

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    Marcella woke up with a jolt.

    Underneath the moon, starving for its sanguine blood, Marcella nodded off in a Toyota she hot-wired with the aftertaste of a wine merchantʼs sangria on her parched tongue and a splitting headache throbbing in her temples. As the Toyota harbored itself underneath the inky moonlight, Marcella looked at the CALLER ID with a numbness, a desecration to her strength, and in the midst of all the turmoil, she pressed it against her head. Wheezing, coughing, freezing to the point that her bones cracked against his skin, where her teeth were chained to one another, to where the alcohol in her system bubbled.

    Marcella clutched the phone and pressed it to her forehead, waiting to answer, wondering who would die on the other end if she did answer it. If she would see the blotchy, bare body of one of her siblings naked as they choked on curdles of their own blood, or a screenshot of one of their body bags on her phone, or Learʼs severed head glossed in the gore of a sicarioʼs knife.

    Marcella inhaled sharply, sobbing to the moon.

    "Itʼs done. The witchfyre is in place, the books are in my possession. Itʼs done," Marcella said hurriedly, furious.

    "Mmm, it has been a while since I have heard your sweet voice, and I must say, the anguish in it makes every waking moment of my suffering almost worthwhile. What did you tell your friend?"

    Marcella huffed.

    "That I was in Chicago to start a war. To buy protection. Silence. I lied. To protect my siblings, to protect my family. I lied."

    The silence was too loud. Too paralyzing, too consuming. Gripping the wheel, Marcella leaned in and sniffled, gritting.

    "I swear to god, you sadistic b*tch, if a word of those documents went to the press–"

    Marcella inhaled sharply, composing herself.

    "I want all your copies of that psychiatric evaluation. Now."

    Ingibiorg chuckled.

    "I am afraid that demand is no longer an option for you," Ingibiorg said with a menacing murmur.

    "The reason being? That transcript? It was fake. Fan-fiction, if you will. A completely fabricated psyche-eval. Well, actually, not completely fabricated. What your mother did in Havana was much worse, Iʼm guessing, or else you wouldnʼt be here. Who knew that our sweet Marcellita had something to hide?"

    She saw flashes.

    The car trekked along the street languidly, cruising along the jagged concrete and falling into the historic ruin. Rummaging through the passengerʼs seat compartment, Marcella rammed her fingers along the dashboard in search of her grandmotherʼs gun, locked and loaded with eight silver rounds. As she clutched it, she burned through more hard, cheap liquor and sangria, letting the sensations fill her up with a syrupy suffocation, and it burned. Olivia and Trevorʼs wide doeful eyes, Javier and Whitneyʼs sharp, ruthless ones, Louise and Lynx's sweet ones, and Romeoʼs  mischievous ones. All her siblings, snuffed out like a flame.

    "You played me," Marcella murmured, hollow.

    "No, you played yourself," Ingibiorg replied.

    A pause.

     "Do you know the words of the poet Machado, muñequita?"

    She saw death.